


Sylviidae

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanafinwë asks a favour of Eönwë, whom he’s been gifted to in his atonement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sylviidae

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Eönwë’s tired when he returns, though not in the way he is after a great battle, a hunt, where he needs to _rest_ and recover. Things have been peaceful of late, the Valar withdrawn, and Middle Earth, Eönwë thinks, shouldn’t have need of him for some time.

But he still has Manwë to attend to, and there are still meetings to sit through and debates to be had, and Eönwë’s now spent so long in this form that he needs to lay it down sometimes. He regrets, when he enters his wing of the mountain home, that his songbird isn’t there to help remove his armour. It’s fair, as he gave no time when he’d return—couldn’t know—and true elves, though less than the second born, do require sleep. He sheds down to white robes and sweeps through the halls towards his bedchambers. 

When he turns the next corner, his direction falters. The whisper of a song is on the wind, echoing softly through the tall corridors of stone. Eönwë quickens his pace, now following the music. This treat is only recent; it took much convincing to coax his guest back into song, as well as the gift of a new harp and firm insistence that it was alright. Kanafinwë’s voice warms his heart. It’s always been melodic and pleasant, but it becomes sheer art in the steady rhythm of lyrics, something Eönwë’s come to look very forward to.

He’s grown very fond of Kanafinwë, though he never asked for this. He needs no servant; he’s a servant himself. But he obeys Manwë in all things, and if it’s Manwë’s will that he should oversee a kinslayer in need of punishment, so be it. It’s become a greater gift than he could’ve known. 

The closer he draws to the gardens, the more clear the song becomes, until Eönwë can make out the words—there’s no harp tonight to join them. It’s a sad piece, something heartfelt and vaguely quivering; it makes the flesh of Eönwë’s chest tighten in a way that’s strange to him. It grows to the point that when he enters the courtyard, he’s relieved to see Kanafinwë sitting there unharmed.

It’s an enchanted enclosure, this space, with the ceiling of the mountain high above and painted like the sky, with such tools of the Maia that it glistens into stars at night and fades into clouds in the day. It’s now faux moonlight that washes over Kanafinwë, who sits on a stone bench, his blue robes clinging tight to his golden skin. His black hair cascades down his back, nearly to his waist, only parted for his elegantly pointed ears. His voice falters at Eönwë’s approach, and he dips his head in acknowledgement. 

Then he takes it farther, as he so often does, and slips from his perch to kneel in the warm earth, encased in emerald grass with lush flowers around the rounded brim. Kanafinwë bends into a full bow, murmuring, “Welcome home.” 

Eönwë answers, “Thank you,” as he takes a seat on the bench, grateful when Kanafinwë rises again. Eönwë has to outstretch one hand to bid him forward, catching on his elbow and guiding him back to the bench’s other end. No one else resides in Eönwë’s home, and he’s never wished to stand above anyone, least of all this pretty creature. His hand traces down Kanafinwë’s arm but stays in Kanafinwë’s lap as he asks, “I was gone for some time. How have you been?”

Kanafinwë tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and recites, “I have polished the armour that you did not wear with you. I have cleaned your quarters and those halls which I did not reach on your last departure. I have sorted your letters sent from Noldor and Vanyar, and a few from Teleri who claim to be your friends, though there was one which I set aside, knowing the elf and believing he may have ill intent. That will, of course, be something for you to decide, but I believed it would be remiss of me to not mention such possibilities.”

Eönwë can feel a smile tugging at his lips. He has many friends among the firstborn, many which he likes to keep in touch with in their humble ways, and he’s yet to meet any in Valinor that he truly mistrusts. Yet he’ll take Kanafinwë’s advice under consideration, and he finds the supposition amusing—Kanafinwë has always seemed, to him, the most reasonable of Fëanor’s sons, but of Fëanor’s line he still is. Eönwë first says another, “Thank you,” and then squeezes Kanafinwë’s knee, leaning forward to softly insist, “But you did not have to do any of that.”

“I submit myself willingly to your service,” Kanafinwë counters, not combative but calm, just firm. “When I was taken before the Valar and offered a Maia to serve in retribution for my crimes, I chose you and accepted this. Twice I have been in your presence and outright defied you; the least I can do in repentance is tidy your home.”

“And I have forgiven you for both,” Eönwë adds, though they’ve had this discussion many times. The first, Eönwë was only a messenger, and Kanafinwë only a servant of his father. The second, Kanafinwë was driven by his oath and goaded by his brother, and even then, Eönwë didn’t wish to harm him. Eönwë never has. He lifts his hand from Kanafinwë’s lap to cup his cheek, fingertips stretching back into the ends of his silken hair, and Kanafinwë leans slightly into Eönwë’s palm. Kanafinwë is always wondrously _warm_ : he has such light inside him.

There’s no sense dwelling on the remorse that Kanafinwë carries—Eönwë’s tried and failed many times to assuage it. Instead, he asks, “Did you do anything for yourself?”

Kanafinwë smiles lightly. But it’s a sad thing, burdened. Eönwë gently thumbs over his high cheekbone, encouraging the joke he must be keeping in. Then Kanafinwë sighs and flickers his dark eyes up to Eönwë, his hand coming to hold Eönwë’s against his face. 

“There is... something... that I would wish to do,” he quietly admits, “but I wanted to ask your permission first, for I am yours, and I do not believe I should have any relief, even fleeting, without your agreement.”

Nor does Eönwë bother to combat the claim that Kanafinwë is _his_. He owns no one and wouldn’t wish to. He answers, “You have been punished enough.” In truth, he would’ve thought Kanafinwë’s own regret, so heavy as it is, agony enough. But Eönwë is only a Maia and doesn’t have the power to pardon the crimes the Silmarils bred. Kanafinwë looks at him for a moment, plush lips slightly parted, but seems to decide, too, that they’ve had this argument too many times. 

He’s still slow in explaining. His eyes lower, and he whispers, “It has been a long time since I felt physical release, and I... am ashamed to say that I have such urges.” He pauses to take in a deep breath, and then, though Eönwë thinks he already understands, Kanafinwë clarifies, “I ask permission to touch myself.”

Though a little stunned, Eönwë quickly says, “Of course.” Kanafinwë’s cheeks are heating beneath his touch, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think his own body was responding similarly. “That was never something I wished to hold from you.”

Kanafinwë’s face spikes in temperature, all the hotter, his creamy skin turned to red. He still doesn’t meet Eönwë’s eyes as he murmurs, “Forgive me. I was not sure that you would understand. You are a Maia...”

Eönwë nods. It’s a fair assumption, but he admits, “I have some experience, though not much. Now that I am so often in this form and I keep halls for this body, I have experimented here and there with Ilúvatar’s children, as they ask. I have learned to feel attraction...” He stops, trailing off, partially because he may have already said too much and partially because Kanafinwë’s gaze has returned to him. 

Kanafinwë tilts his head to the side, grips Eönwë’s hand tight and places a chaste kiss on his palm that gives Eönwë a surge of inexplicable warmth. Leaning back into it, Kanafinwë breathes, “I did not know that. But if you wished to use me so... I would be very amenable.”

Eönwë can’t keep his surprise off his face. Kanafinwë shifts closer along the bench, so that their hips and legs touch through their robes. Eönwë, on occasion, has been asked to try certain things, and he has mostly done so to explore, but now he feels such _want_ that he has to pause to interpret it. In his silence, Kanafinwë continues, “It would be fitting, as I am to serve your needs, but you need not worry that I offer this out of obligation. I would do so, if you wished—be whatever you should ask—but I also submit myself as a willing partner.”

For a moment, Eönwë searches him. Eönwë already knows Kanafinwë wouldn’t suggest such a thing if he didn’t truly want it. He’s become somewhat subservience in his grief, but he still carries pride in him and is still a warrior. One that Eönwë much desires. Kanafinwë is a gorgeous being, magnificent in body and wondrous in spirit, kind and wise, creative and strong. Of all the many Eldar that Eönwë’s met, Kanafinwë is the one that most drew Eönwë in, and in the pale starlight and the wake of his song, Kanafinwë becomes evermore irresistible.

Finally, Eönwë sighs, deciding, “This was about your pleasure.” Before Kanafinwë can protest, Eönwë takes hold of his knees and drags him forward, pulling him up and into Eönwë’s lap. Kanafinwë acquiesces easily and rearranges gracefully there, hands coming to rest on Eönwë’s shoulders. “You have been very good to me,” Eönwë adds, while his hands skim down Kanafinwë’s slim sides. “I will aid you this way, and do so any time that you are free and come to me with this wish.” And perhaps he’ll approach Kanafinwë a few times of his own; the prospect is very tempting.

Kanafinwë smiles, radiant. He allows Eönwë to untie the sash of his robes and part them, revealing a vast expanse of smooth skin for Eönwë to eye with a strange stirring of pleasure. He’s hardly unfamiliar with the Noldor form, but something about Kanafinwë in particular makes his newfound breath catch in his throat. He presses his knuckles to the middle of Kanafinwë’s chest and strokes slowly down, into the trim nest of dark tufts that rests beneath his hips. Moving more fabric out of the way, Eönwë eyes Kanafinwë’s long shaft, a slightly darker gold than the rest of him and vaguely purple at the veil tip, slender and subtly curved. It isn’t so dissimilar, though perhaps a little smaller, than Eönwë’s own, fashioned in the style of the creatures he most often dwells with. When he wraps his fingers around it, Kanafinwë lets out a contented sigh.

Eönwë strokes once, simply feeling, then traces the outline of one vein with his thumb and palms the underside. Beneath it hangs a tight, pink sac that Eönwë dips to cup and gently tug, earning a little gasp. Before he can return his hand to Kanafinwë’s cock, Kanafinwë reaches down to capture his sleeve.

Kanafinwë lifts up Eönwë’s hand and holds it before his mouth, then swipes his tongue across it. The touch, soft and spongy, makes Eönwë shiver. Kanafinwë laps at him a few times, then guides the hand back down. Eönwë understand and returns to Kanafinwë’s shaft, where he locks his fingers around it and begins to pump, working up and down from base to tip. 

It’s a pleasing motion, mostly for the way that Kanafinwë reacts. As Eönwë strokes him, Kanafinwë’s body begins to gently rock with it, arching forward and falling back, a few strands of dark hair slipping down his shoulders. His lashes lower, lips parting, and he’s so _handsome_ like this, always is. Eönwë lifts his free hand to hold Kanafinwë’s face again, and he murmurs, needing Kanafinwë to know this, “You are so very _beautiful_ , my songbird.”

Kanafinwë smiles, more dazzling than ever. The sounds he makes, each little gasp and whimper and hitch of breath, are mellifluous and as enticing as any of his songs. Eönwë never expected to be given an Eldar, but he’s eternally grateful for it. He knows, though the feeling is foreign and strange, that he’s falling swiftly in love. 

He touches Kanafinwë for some time, gentle and slow, because he wants it to _last_ , and Kanafinwë rides it through but never bucks too harshly forward or asks for anymore; perhaps he wants the same. His hands mostly remain on Eönwë’s shoulders but occasionally push back to thread through Eönwë’s hair and trace Eönwë’s neck, exploring tentatively. Eönwë hopes that this will happen again, preferably in the comfort of sheets, so that they can lay one another down and explore _everything_ more properly. 

Eventually, Kanafinwë can’t seem to last any longer. His mouth opens wide, breath ragged, and he comes with a sudden cry, spilling himself into Eönwë’s hand. It spurts against Eönwë’s robes, something he doesn’t at all mind and Kanafinwë will likely clean later. Eönwë pumps him through it, until Kanafinwë slows to a stop and hangs his head, breathing hard. 

Slumped, Kanafinwë is heavier in his satiation. Eönwë releases him and refastens his robes. Then Eönwë wipes his hand clean on his own robes and reaches to thread through Kanafinwë’s hair, idly brushing it back, simply for an excuse to keep _touching him_.

When Kanafinwë recovers, he straightens again, his hands still on Eönwë’s shoulders, and he leans forward, face tilting. Eönwë is there to meet him. Their lips brush, delicate but lingering, Kanafinwë’s a little wet and sweetly soft. It’s their first kiss: one to remember.

As they part, Kanafinwë murmurs, “You must let me return the favour sometime.” Eönwë smiles, more than agreeable. 

He wouldn’t mind it soon, but at the moment he’s tired, and first he asks, “Would you be willing to share my bed tonight? Only that, unfortunately, for we could both use rest.”

Kanafinwë, still smiling brightly, nods. 

So Eönwë scoops him up to carry off, whisked away to increasing wonders.


End file.
